


The F-Word

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Christmas, Gen, New 52
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s almost Christmas, and the Robins come together for an accidental dinner as a fa- well, you know. And it’s all thanks to Red Hood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The F-Word

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple days ago for the advent calendar event of 120 Minuten, one of my favorite Livejournal communities! It’s heavily inspired by the historical moment in Grayson #15 where you saw all the Robin boys at the same table for the first time…ever, I think. (DoTF doesn’t count XD) And yeah, I know they had burgers or sandwiches, but anyway XD
> 
> I also tried to play around with their New 52 personalities/dynamics a little, which was fun! I didn’t go into mega-much detail since the community rules say 120 minutes per fic, but yeah. Some mild shippiness if you look sideways.

“How ‘bout we talk this through over food? I could whip us something up.”  
  
Red Hood lands on his boots in the darkened alley with a loud thud. And so do his words. His suggestion is met with blank stares, which makes him feel even more self-conscious than he already is, hanging around Batman’s other, less ill-reputed prodigies.  
  
“What,” he grumbles into the ensuing silence.

He sees Robin and Agent Double-0 Dick exchange a covert look. Dick’s got an all-new getup now, no mask, which means you can sometimes actually spot what his eyes are doing unless he’s wearing the swirly face, which he’s not right now. And he’s subtle about his expressions, like a master student of the Bat would be, but Jason knows enough to notice. Dick’s still doing that thing where he tries to exude effortless confidence, probably to keep everyone else at ease, but Jason can tell that the wheels are spinning in that flawless noggin of his. He’s swooped back into Gotham in order to take the reins of whatever is happening; like everyone expects him to in his mind, like he expects himself to anytime always, and like he probably imagines Bruce would expect if Bruce was thinking of him at all, which he doesn’t. Jason imagines it must eat at him. But it’s not like they’re friendly enough to talk about it.  
  
Red Robin is unironically checking his Twitter on his wrist-screen. He does things like that. He doesn’t do them because he’s that much of a geek, or because he’s got all that many followers. He does it so he can withdraw to his own little bubble, fade into the background whenever the conversation turns to something that’s not quipping or spouting facts. Him, Jason knows a little better than the other two, and yeah, he’s a genius, but he’s also a teenage boy who’s very uncomfortable in his skin. Tim Drake hasn’t stopped looking over his shoulder since those men with guns came after his parents several years ago, and he’ll absolutely kick the ass of everyone who approaches him to open up about it, which Jason can attest to. Tim could use a big brother like Dick, or maybe even a shitass little brother like Damian, but Jason doesn’t think that he’s ever let either of them see him have an emotion, even.  
  
Damian looks…standoffish, as he usually does, but he kinda looks like he really needs a nap, too. Which makes sense, since word on the street is that he got dropped off in Gotham by a giant red bat-monster with wings, so whatever the littlest has been up to, it must’ve been wild. He might tell that story to Dick one day. Probably not to Jason or Tim, they’re not close like that. He does look tired, though, for real. The domino has always been every Robin’s best disguise for dark shadows under bloodshot eyes, but Jason knows, from experience.  
  
Anyway, none of them look like they’re taking him up on the offer.  
  
The awkward silence lasts for a few seconds, until Tim clears his throat.  
  
“Hood”, he says, 'cause of course he’s taken in everything despite scrolling through his feed, “It’s the helmet. No offense, but it makes everything you say sound kinda sinister.”  
  
“Really,” he drones from under his helmet. “That why nobody ever laughs at my jokes?”  
  
At that, Dick’s mouth starts twitching and he looks like he wants to say something smart, but then thinks better of it. Damian has no such reservations.  
  
“No.” He crosses his arms, his face in a deadpan. “No, trust me, that’s not the reason.”  
  
Jason growls. It leaves the metal contraption on his head as a harsh, foreboding buzz, and ok sure, he can kinda hear what Tim means. His helmet is his way to seal himself in a bubble, to avoid having Dick Grayson look at his eyes, or have Batman hear the crack in his voice.  
  
“I knew one of you’d say that,” he grumbles.  
  
“I don’t doubt it.” Damian looks up with a smirk. “And yet, you asked.”  
  
Twerp.  
  
“Ok, so.” He fumbles with his helmet, switches off the voice modulator. “This better?”  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“Hn.”  
  
Dick and Tim both make non-committal noises and hand-waggles, Damian shrugs and says, “Now you sound like you’re broadcasting from inside a garbage can-”  
  
“Oh for-”  
  
He pushes a button, and with an anti-climactic _pfft_ , the hood comes off. “Ok, you know what?! Offer rescinded. This was the first and last time I’ve invited you jerks to dinner. I’m goin’, you can go fight over the last sloppy hot dog at Heiner’s Würstchen, for all I care.”  
  
He’s about to leave when Dick says, “Hold up.”   
  
Jason turns around in time to see him get a forlorn look on his face. “Aw man, Heiner’s not open all night anymore?”  
  
“Oh right, you weren’t here for that.” Tim looks up, even having the grace to close his browser. “Last month, some new guy named The Stinger crashed the place. He was wearing a trenchcoat filled with trained killer bees-”  
  
“Trained killer bees. _Trained_. Bees.” The oldest Boy Wonder lets that bit of vintage Gotham weirdness sink in for a moment. “In _November_.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Tim sounds as casual as ever, but Jason can tell he’s thrilled that the first Robin is drinking in his tale. “Fortunately, there were no casualties, and the place got renovated, but Heiner said he’s not doing the late-late shift anymore. Spoiler and Batgirl are really broken up about it.”  
  
“Well, now I’m too.” Dick sighs. “End of an era, that one.”  
  
“Fath- Batman took me there”, Damian chimes in, nodding gravely. “They had vegetarian dogs before most everyone else did.”  
  
“I like their milkshakes,” Tim adds, in an awkward bid to commiserate. It’s endearing.  
  
The alley they’re standing in is cold and clammy. The air is so freezing that their words come out forming little puffy clouds, and Jason doesn’t think either of them has slept in the last 12 to 18 hours. They’re not the type of people who prioritize this kind of thing, but he can tell it’s wearing on all of them. They should probably go someplace warm, thaw up, drink something hot, figure out how to do this thing, and also how to get comfortable with each other somehow.  
  
But whatever. He’s gonna go get cozy by himself if they’re gonna be like this.  
  
“So.” Dick tilts his head before Jason can take off again. “You’ve said something earlier about…whipping? I’m intrigued.”  
  
Jason turns and glowers at him, and Dick smiles. His deep blue eyes are shining guilelessly, leaving it ambiguous whether the innuendo was intentional or not. He operates that way.  
  
“I mean.” Dick folds his formidable arms over his chest. “You cook?”  
  
“Well. Yeah.” Jason shrugs, casting a look around in case someone finds that ridiculous. With this lot, he never knows. “Don’t you guys? I mean, we all live on our own except for Robin, right? I mean-”  
  
Now they all look interested, and he feels self-conscious again. Worse, he starts feeling _eager_. He wishes he was still wearing the bucket on his head. “I mean. I don’t have much at the safehouse and it’s kinda late for shopping, but I- I could probably do a casserole, y'know? Or some pasta. Get a stew goin’. Fry some omelets, maybe. Or, I could bake cookies-”  
  
Damian scoffs. “Now I _know_ you’re showing off. Who volunteers _cookies_ as a quick dining option?”  
  
Dick nudges him. “That’s not how one responds to an offering of cookies,” he scolds him in his best Alfred, and Damian makes a face at him.  
  
“Well, _I’m sorry_ if you’re offened that I picked up a useful everyday skill while you were out wrestling alligators for honor or whatever, Your Highness,” Jason hisses at the brat. “Maybe you wanna make like Red Robin here, and permanently move into a bag of Doritos.”  
  
“Hey.” Tim shoots him a sideways glance. “I’ll have you know that I also have a subscription for Lexcorp Protein Bars, _and_ I’m on the year-round mailing list of Gotham Pizza Festival.”  
  
Dick turns to him. “Why do they call it a Festival when it’s year-round?”  
  
Tim shrugs. “I suppose that’s what they’re celebrating.”  
  
Damian looks smug. “Well, joke’s on you, Hood, I happen to make my own Burghul salad, and it’s _delicious_ , much better than Mo- Talia’s. She always puts too much mint in it, which I would _never_ do. I even have the herbs required in my utility belt, from my travels. But, of course,” he crosses his arms in a most self-important fashion, “I would require fresh, organic ingredients for it, which I _don’t_ assume you have.”  
  
“And now the joke’s on _you_ , Tiny Wonder,” Jason spits, “Because _I_ happen to have a ton of bulgur, which is a _great_ , filling, multi-purpose ingredient, _and_ a bag of frozen veggies just waiting for your expertise-”  
  
“Then it’s settled,” Dick interrupts. “Look, I don’t mind it if you two want to make cooking _a whole new field_ to have an escalating rivalry in – actually, I approve, that’s way better than the other stuff – but let’s take this inside before we all freeze or get spotted, all right? Our type’s not that popular around here right now.”  
  
As if it’d been waiting for its cue, a police siren starts ringing right around the corner, putting a swift end to their congregation.  
  
Dick, the oldest, throws up his arms and hilariously exclaims, “ _It’s the fuzz!_ ”, to which Jason rolls his eyes and drawls, “Follow me,” before he swings away into the night.  
  
***  
  
“This is one of your safehouses, huh,” Dick remarks to Jason as they finally all climb through the window one by one.  
  
“Yeah? What, worried I’ll have it rigged to explode once you’re all inside, or something?”  
  
“No.” Dick shrugs. “I’m just surprised you’re taking us in. And it’s not even an emergency.”  
  
Jason feels his face heat up. “Well,” he drawls, a little harsher than necessary, “Of course it’s compromised, now that I’ve led you jabronis here. So I’ll probably give it up. I know enough people who could use a free place.”  
  
Dick, who’s been in the process of sliding through the window after Damian, turns to look at him. “You do that a lot?” He asks quietly. “Let people move into your houses for free?”  
  
Jason shuffles his booted feet on the fire escape. Appreciation from Dick is not something he’s used to or finds easy to handle, not since he’s been around fifteen, not since he came back. Not that there’s a lot of that, anyway.  
  
“Surprised again,” he mutters.  
  
“No. Not at all.”  
  
To Jason’s surprise, Dick turns and offers him his hand to help him through the window, which he doesn’t need. In a way, sincere Dick is even worse than appreciative Dick. Jason scowls, but takes the hand, anyway.  
  
They arrive to the sight of Damian standing still in the middle of the room, examining something that seems to puzzle him.  
  
“Todd has a small tree,” he announces. “With those seasonal silver accessories Alfred likes.”  
  
“Tinsel,” Tim informs him, before turning to the older boy.  
  
“I had no idea you celebrated,” he says, and Jason can see him stow this info away in his data-collecting mind and fuckdammit, now he’s gonna get a Christmas present from Tim Drake and now he’ll have to get him one too.  
  
“I d- I thought it was- It’s- _decorative_ , ok? It’s- it gives the room _character_ -”  
  
He’d only had a Christmas tree once as a kid before he’d gotten to live at the manor. It had been one of the better years; it’d been a pretty measly little thing, probably a discount, but he’d been so ridiculously, _pathetically_ stoked to have one of these at home. He’d somehow convinced his mom to keep it 'till February (which wasn’t hard, since she was in no mood to move that thing, needles be damned), and had very bravely not cried when they had to finally toss it. That was when he’d still thought they might get one again.  
  
And at that time, he’d been…fond of tinsel, ok. It looked so glittery and pretty, and it was so frail and immediately got crushed when you tried to play with it, put for a few seconds, it was like you had silvery magic in your hands-  
  
Yeah well, he’d been an idiot, like all small kids were idiots sometimes.  
  
So he got one for his Gotham place, a small one. Took five minutes out of his day to hang tinsel on it. He likes to have it around to look at, is all.  
  
His assassin’s training prevents him from flinching when he suddenly feels something on his shoulder. He’s surprised and mildly embarrassed to find that it’s Dick Grayson’s hand. The older boy’s lucky Jason didn’t hurl him across the room. But Dick, being Dick, woulda probably been prepared for that.  
  
“I like it,” he declares, looking amused in that reserved way he ususally has around his successor. “There’s been so much going on, I almost forgot what time of year it is until I saw…this.”  
  
“Want me to turn it on,” Jason mumbles. “’s the fifteenth after all, it’s not weird.”  
  
“Sure, why not, since we’re here,” Damian says, trying not to sound at all interested.  
  
“I mean, if you want to,” Tim says with awkward indifference.  
  
And Dick says, “Please.”  
  
So Jason does. He’s bought electric lights, because he’s helped out at far too many candle-induced house fires to do otherwise. But he did put lights on it.  
  
So then they all stand around the lit tree like a bunch of fucking dorks for a bit, and it occurs to Jason that, with their schedules, and Bruce not even knowing them anymore, and Alfred doing…who knew what, none of them were probably going to have a Christmas celebration. So maybe this was it, for them. Bunch of costumed bozos standing around in a single’s apartment while wanted murderer Red Hood fried up some omelets and another tiny recovering murderer was making some salad.  
  
“Look at that,” Dick eventually says softly, looking almost wistful in the electric candlelight. “A tree, some dinner, almost like we’re a real f-”  
  
“Don’t overdo it,” Jason interjects.  
  
“Don’t say it,” Damian growls.  
  
“You’ll jinx it,” Tim muses.  
  
Dick hesitates for a moment, then he deflates, sighing, and Jason sees those wheels start spinning again. “If you guys insist. Hey, Jason, does your place have a bathtub?”  
  
“What d'you think I am, an animal? 'course it does.”  
  
What hard-living vigilante worth their salt did _not_ love bubble baths? No-one, that’s who.  
  
“Great. I call dibs. See you all when dinner’s ready.”  
  
And he makes a beeline for the bathroom as if the Fist Of Kain was after him, which they probably are.  
  
“You didn’t tell us what _your_ specialty dishes are, Grayson,” Damian calls after him, and Jason admires the amount of faith he has in his big brother’s many talents.  
  
“And you can count your blessings if you never find out, Damian,” Dick calls out, before shutting the bathroom door with one last wink in their direction.  
  
“Do _not_ use my bath bomb, Dick, I bought that _for myself_ at Sergio’s-”  
  
“Can’t hear you, Jason, water’s running!”  
  
“You _heard_ me-”  
  
He’s distracted by Tim, who’s already invited himself to fiddle with his stereo, apparently. “Hey, can I plug my iPod in here so we can listen to music?”  
  
“I have music on there.”  
  
“Yeah, but.” Red Robin blinks at him like he doesn’t comprehend, which Jason is sure is on purpose. “I bring _my own_ so I can listen to it everywhere.”  
  
“You- Yeah, _fine_. Whatever-” He turns, in time to see Robin rummage through the drawers in his walk-in kitchen like he’s on a mission.  
  
“Todd, I’m assuming you have stainless steel cutlery somewhere in here?”  
  
Jason lets out a deep sigh. “I’ll get it. Right after you helped me make some piping hot chocolate. I want one, so that means you’re all getting one, whether you like it or not. This ain’t Alfred’s, but I’m not gonna let anyone call me a shitty host.”  
  
And just like that, their early Robin Christmas celebration for displaced losers is underway.


End file.
